Not Arriving: A Two of Us Collection
by Professor Maka
Summary: This collection was created to consolidate all of the shorts I've written surrounding my ongoing longfic Two of Us in one place. Not all of them are canon to the fic. The newest short, "The End," is a false conclusion. IT IS NOT CANON TO THE FIC AND FULL OF SADNESS. You have been warned. Soul x Maka, Canonverse.
1. Fear and Loathing

**A/N: I have enough little TOU drabbles that I decided to stick them together for ease of finding. Most, but not all of these, are canon to the main fic.**

 **I had a couple of reverse POV tumblr prompts for my current project, and this first drabble was born. It's the first of three for Two of Us from Soul's POV. This is basically from the opening of chapter 1.**

* * *

He really, really didn't want to do this. It wasn't that he didn't want to go to his brother's wedding, exactly—he loved his brother and he really did want to see him again, to be there for him. It was more that he didn't want to deal with everything _else_ that entailed, his family, his old life, his parents. He had left for a reason, and after so long, going back seemed awkward, uncomfortable, impossible.

But it was important to Wes. It was important to Wes, and he'd shut his brother out long enough, so he would do this thing because he _should_ do this thing, but he didn't think he could do it alone, face it alone, which meant he wanted Maka with him. He knew it wasn't fair, to drag her into the mess he'd left behind, but he also knew that she wouldn't hesitate to be there if he asked because she was _Maka_ , loyal and fearless, _Maka_ , who would jump in headfirst if someone she cared about was involved. Somehow, that just made him feel even more guilty, made him feel like the ass he was in truth, and as he watched the microwavable popcorn spin and grow within the confines of the appliance, he wondered if he should ask her at all, if he shouldn't just face the cold ashes of his past on his own.

Then again, knowing Maka, she wouldn't let him if he tried.

All of this wouldn't be so bad, really, if it weren't for that _other thing_ , the stupid thing his brother had unwittingly done. Everything else wouldn't make his fierce meister blink twice, but _this_ , this would have her balking and steaming and yet, the whole mess would become far worse if they didn't play along. And, he could admit to himself and only to himself, the whole prospect of pretending to be married to the woman he had been secretly pining after for as long as he could remember wasn't exactly terrible.

Pulled from his thoughts by the harsh beeping of the microwave, he removed the popcorn to pour into a bowl, and taking up that and two sodas, made his way to the couch and the meister in question.

Time to face the music. Hopefully, it wouldn't be a death knell.


	2. Say Yes to the Dress

**A/N: This one was a gift for _eisschirmchen._ It takes place during my longer fic _Two of Us_ in the cracks of Chapter 1, between movie night and getting on a plane several days later, and while I'm not sure it's canon to the fic, it probably could be.**

 **It's pretty much pointless fluff. You've been warned. And yes, I DID steal the title from a silly reality show. These things happen.**

* * *

"It's not like I'm the one getting married-no one's going to _care_ what my dress looks like, Soul," she finally snapped, exasperated, as he asked her for the half dozenth time what she planned to wear.

" _That_ is where you're wrong," he replied with an almost defeated sounding sigh. "Sure, if you wear the right thing no one will look twice-but if it isn't the right thing, you'll be the talk of the wedding and just-" he shook his head "-can I _please_ help you pick out a dress? I'll-uh-I don't know, Maka, don't most girls like this shit?" He looked exasperated, but she could feel the nervous dread rolling off his soul in waves, and _that_ gave her pause even as she rolled her eyes at the ridiculous statement. She was going for him-if getting a dress would ease his fears, she supposed it wouldn't kill her to comply.

"What are you wearing, anyway?" she asked finally, figuring he deserved to sweat just a little before she agreed for being such an absolute ass about the whole thing.

"I'm in the wedding." He rolled his eyes right back. "They'll shove me into the same bullshit the other guys are wearing, probably some stiff as fuck tux, but you- _you_ need something to wear."

"Well, I _do_ have dresses, Soul. I was thinking maybe I'd wear the one from the last annual ball, you know the-"

"No," he cut her off, and she scowled. She'd actually really liked that dress. It was silver, and slinky, and when Liz and Tsubaki initially suggested it she had balked because the cut was low and the slit was high-but she looked good in it. She'd hoped her partner would think so, too, though of course, he'd been typical Soul, spending half his night on the balcony and avoiding her more than usual. The one dance they'd shared had been nice, but had ended too soon, and then it was a new disappearing act. So much for the power of the right dress-Liz had been wrong.

"Look, that dress is-well, it won't work for this. It was nice, but it's not-" He was flustered and stammering and she was getting tired of silly bickering for the sake of bickering when she'd already decided to give in, so she doled out her measure of mercy.

"Fine, I'll get a new dress. It's your brother's wedding, so I guess I can stomach a bit of shopping."

He looked ridiculously relieved, the puff of air he released audible. "Good, great, let's go-" he eyed her meister wear; they were supposed to train today "- _after_ you change. We're going to _Knock 'em Dead,_ and they-"

"Are _very_ DWMA friendly. Aside from which, we can go _after_ we train. If we're taking a week off for this whole trip, we really need to make sure we get some extra training in before we leave."

"Yeah, yeah, you're the meister." He rolled his eyes again, but the action seemed more reflex than real annoyance.

Their course decided, they grabbed keys and headed out the door.

"Seriously, Soul, this one is _fine._ Since when do you even care what I wear?" The exasperation was clear in her tone. They'd been in the store for forty five minutes, she'd already tried on ten dresses, and she was utterly exhausted from training. She was starting to feel like one of the women on those silly bridal shows, the ones who tried on dress after dress happily, only to be told by their mother or sister or fiance that it wasn't _the one_. "Just like the other nine were fine. It's _just a dress_."

His face behind her in the mirror sported a decided scowl. "No, nothing is _just a dress_ -not to the people we'll be with. And I don't want-" That same anxiousness in his soul still sat there firmly.

"Fine, fine." She waved a hand. "I'll go try on number eleven. Just-"

"Actually," he grabbed her wrist to stop her, spun her to face him. "I'm going to talk to the girl who was helping us. I have an idea." He was gone a second later, disappearing from the large dressing area to find the shop attendant. The same shop attendant he'd insistently waved away when they entered the store. The same shop attendant who had taken in Maka's somewhat ruffled appearance with distaste-they had ended up stumbling on Black Star and Tsubaki at the training grounds, and the resultant sparring match had left her clothes frayed and a prominent bruise on her cheekbone that no amount of freshening up had been able to disguise. Apparently, the girl did _not_ approve if her puckered lips and the crease between her brow was anything to go by. Maka couldn't care; their training kept them sharp, kept a lot of people safe, this girl included, whether she recognized it or not. She'd dealt with worse than mild distaste; she could handle one uppity shop attendant.

The meister moved back into the smaller area that was her actual dressing room to remove dress ten, keeping the door closed since she was now waiting on her weapon to procure-whatever it was he thought he was going to get this girl to find. Hearing giggling outside the door, she cracked it to see that Soul had returned with the attendant, who was holding an opaque garment bag over one shoulder. They stopped in the middle of the room, and the girl, a tall, sleek brunette, put a hand on one of her weapon's shoulders lightly. "This dress will make _any_ girl the talk of the affair, trust me. Even-well, _any girl_." Her smile was sultry. "Though should you need a new date, I'm sure-"

Soul wore a bored expression as he held out a hand, subtly slipping away from her light touch in the process and cutting off her offer. "Great, thanks. I'm sure it'll be perfect for Maka."

The girl frowned prettily at his expectant hand before offering up the garment bag. "Well, if you need anything else, Mr. Deathscythe, you know where to find me!" she said with a far too accommodating smile, then flounced out of the room.

Was there nowhere in Death City where she wouldn't find women flirting with her weapon? Maka rolled her eyes at the retreating back of the attendant before cracking the door wider. For his part, Soul was looking thoughtfully at the garment bag in his hand, and she couldn't help but to wonder just what was inside.

"Soul, what-" she began, but he walked closer and handed her the bag through the crack in the door. "Try this," he said, his expression blank. "I think it's what we're looking for."

Maka looked from him to the bag and back before taking it from him and shutting the door. What exactly had her weapon managed to procure? Well, time to find out. She hung the bag on the hook on the door and unzipped it unceremoniously to reveal black and white. Slowly inching the garment from the bag, she almost gasped because it was nothing short of breathtaking-white with a black pattern overlay, long a-line skirt, sleeveless with thick ruffled black straps. It was the most elegant dress Maka had ever seen up close, far too sophisticated for someone like her. Still, _still,_ her weapon wanted her to wear it, so she would.

She slipped it on, then struggled with the back toggles with a frown. She could probably manage them, but it would take awhile.

"Hey, Soul? A little help?" she called out softly as she cracked the door.

He didn't answer, but he did make his way over, and she opened the door and presented her back to him. His deft fingers were soon working the closures on her back, and she willed down her shiver at his light almost-touch. "Done," he said after a few moments, and she turned to him with a skeptical frown.

"So-this is the one?"

"Yeah," he swallowed and nodded. "Definitely the one." He backed up. "Um, I'll just let you-change back-and we'll settle things and-yeah," he stammered, then backed all the way out to close the door behind him.

He truly must be freaking out over this whole wedding-going-home thing, because he was acting _strange_. Then again, she knew his family was wealthy and prestigious, and from what little she had gathered from him, highly critical. Maybe-maybe if he was this nervous about what she'd wear to the wedding, she should take this a bit more seriously. Maybe some new clothes were in order. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass her weapon, make him feel ashamed of his death child meister and her odd fashion sense. It wasn't like Soul was really any _better_ with the mustard yellow horrors he'd sported in their younger years-but that was here, and this would be-well, _there,_ where he was from, and she wanted him to feel comfortable, feel proud of her, of himself, of what he'd become, of what they'd become together. Maybe she'd call Liz. She still had a few days until they left, and if anyone would know about these things, it was the highly fashion conscious demon pistol.

She turned to the mirror for the first time to take a good look before she took the dress off and blinked at what she saw, because the woman in the mirror was far, far too elegant to be her. The dress was lovely. It cinched at her waist just right, flared out to expose her ankles enticingly. The sweetheart neckline accentuated her modest bust, the a-line cut highlighted her slight curves. She looked-well, she looked _good_ , the dress itself almost a meeting of white dress and black dress, a tangible reminder of the intricate dance of their souls. It was perfect. No wonder Soul had insisted on this one, had rejected all those that came before it. This dress made them look like dishrags, like pale imitations. This dress was _amazing._

Where it had come from was a better question, because it was classic, nothing like anything she'd seen in the shop. She moved her hands back to undo the clasps and found herself facing the same struggle she had trying to fasten it, so she cracked the door again to seek out her partner, who was sitting on a plush ottoman, staring blankly into space, hand tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh.

"Uh, Soul? I could use another hand-if you don't mind?"

"Yeah, sorry-I should have-sorry," he said, shaking his head, a decidedly red tint to his cheeks. He walked over and deftly worked at the clasps until she was unfastened, then retreated just as quickly, though there was a confusing mess coming from his soul he quickly shoved into hiding. He really _was_ thrown off by everything, wasn't he?

"Thanks," she threw over her shoulder before he could shut the door. He grunted an acknowledgment and she removed the dress and placed it carefully back in the bag before re-donning her Spartoi uniform. It was no less beaten up by her match with Black Star than it had been when she came in, and suddenly, she felt plain and gangly, the elegant woman she had just seen in the mirror once more replaced by the awkward child-woman she had long been. With a sigh, she put the hair she had kept down to try on dresses back into pigtails, then grabbing the dress, walked out the dressing room door.

They walked to the counter together, a strange awkwardness she couldn't quite place settling between them. The attendant smiled warmly, her attention wholly taken by the weapon.

"So it's what you wanted?"

"Yeah," he nodded, voice thick. "Perfect. You got the payment information, right?"

"Mmm-hmm!" she said brightly. "Though I'm pretty sure Madame De Fleur would be happy to let the Last Death Scythe take anything from the store you'd like free of charge. We don't give access to her private collection to just _anyone,_ you know, and that vintage Chanel is one of her favorites." The fact that her gaze had drifted to Maka with distaste when she'd said the last bit wasn't lost on the meister.

"No, charge it. We don't take gifts," he replied flatly. It was true, too-much like politicians, DWMA students and workers weren't allowed to accept such tokens of appreciation.

"Of course, Mr. Evans, of course," she held out a business card, and when he put out his hand hesitantly, pressed it into his palm warmly. "Feel free to call me if you need anything. _Anytime_." Death, how flagrant could you get? Maka wanted to hurl even as a tight cord of jealously twinged in the pit of her stomach. It quickly vanished as Soul just blinked at the woman and shrugged, shoving the card haphazardly into his pocket. "Yeah, thanks," he said with the same bored tone before turning to his meister. "You ready?"

"Uh, yeah, let's go," she responded, and without a backward glance, they made their way out of the store.

As they drove home in the most awkward position imaginable, Maka with one hand around him, one hand held up high to hold the garment bag, she could still sense from him an odd mix of nervousness, dread, and something she couldn't quite grasp, something he was working very hard to shove down beneath it all. She marveled again at what a mess he was over this whole going home thing, how worried he seemed over how people would react to him and, worse yet, to _her_.

Yes, a call to Liz was definitely in order.

Maka tried not to let her own stomach churn, tried not to feed off of his unease as they made their way home. And as they ordered in pizza, changed into pajamas, and curled up on the couch for an impromptu binge marathon of _Lord of the Rings_ , all dread was forgotten, at least for the moment. There would be plenty of room for _that_ once they actually flew to Connecticut in a scant three days, but for now, all was well.


	3. The Kiss

**A/N: So this is basically a bonus drabble for _Two of Us_. It's a bit of Chapter 4 from Soul's POV.**

* * *

As the door shut behind them, the little bell ringing merrily to announce their presence, he tried to steel his courage. He could do this. _He could do this._ How long had he wanted to do this? _Fuck Wes for pushing him to do this._

He trailed behind his bastard brother, watched him stride forward to catch up his fiance, moved forward himself to stand before his surprised meister.

"What are you doing here?" she looked up at him, brow wrinkled in confusion.

He responded with a shrug. "Not my call." And it wasn't, not even close, and he couldn't believe what he was about to do. He leaned close, placing his hands lightly on her waist, his own mind filling with static at the prospect before him. It frightened him, it thrilled him, but it was allowed—part of the show—part of what they had agreed to. He could do this. He would do this.

"Sorry 'bout this," he whispered in her ear, willing his voice to stay steady, "but Wes made it clear it'd look weird if we didn't."

It was now or never. He shifted his face to the side and before he even realized he had decided to make the move, he had already made it and his lips were on hers. She stiffened for only an instant, and then her lips moved against his almost eagerly, and if he was more than enthusiastic, well, who could blame him when he had wanted to do this for so damned long?

After several moments, he forced himself to stop as much as he wanted to pull her yet closer, to feel her body against his, to deepen rather than cut off the kiss. He moved his mouth back to her ear, afraid to look in her eyes, afraid to see the shock, or worse, disgust that was surely there. But at least—at least she had responded, had put on the show, had played along. If nothing else, she cared about him enough to do that much.

"Thanks for making it convincing, I owe you," he managed to get out in a whisper. He was dazed, the warmth of his meister's lips still lingering on his own, his mind in the clouds or on the floor, the odd mix of elation and despair that flooded him almost overwhelming because _he had just kissed his meister,_ and yet, it was just a sick joke, a pretense. All he wanted to do was keep kissing her forever, but after this weekend, he would never be able to kiss her again.

As he pulled away, he moved his eyes anywhere but to her face and caught the knowing smile of his brother. He wanted to punch the bastard, or maybe thank him, he wasn't sure, and was surprised once more as his meister pulled him into a hug and whispered against his own ear, so hot that he had to suppress a shiver, "damn right you do," before pushing away again.

Before he could even consider responding, his head feeling like it was floating miles above, still full of the feel of her lips on his, his brother smirked at him.

"Well, little brother, looks like we both had business here," he said as he walked past, Soul trailing after automatically and feeling about ten feet over his head with the whole damned charade.


	4. Smitten

**A/N: This was written for the VDay Tumblr challenge, day 12, Smitten. It's set during _Two of Us_ , in the gaps of Chapter 6. It's short, told from Soul's POV, and features more of Wes being a little shit.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Thanks go to ilarual and rebornfromash for the eyes. Mwah!**

* * *

Soul checked his phone as they drove through the crowded cityscape towards their destination, only to find nothing for the umpteenth time. Knowing that his meister was still with his brother's fiance and the rest of the bridal party, he probably should have expected as much; Maka found it rude to use her phone when she was supposed to be paying attention to others, a truth she'd long since engraved permanently into his skull. That didn't make him any less eager (or maybe fearful) to hear from her, especially after what had happened that morning. As his thoughts lingered on the events in the gift shop—on pleasant softness and _warmth_ —they were interrupted by a light cough from the seat across from him. The death scythe raised his eyes to meet his brother's amused gaze.

"You really are smitten with her, aren't you?" Wes said casually.

"Smitten?" Soul scoffed, taking a swig of his champagne; he'd never really been a drinker, but it had been a long day with his cousins around, and at this point, he _needed_ it. "Seriously, Wes? Who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Fucking Darcy? It's the twenty first century—no one says smitten."

Wes shrugged and took a sip of his own champagne, his smile never faltering. "Okay, you've got it for her, you want her to play cowgirl with you, you wanna put a ring on it—better?"

"Not really," Soul rolled his eyes.

"Still doesn't answer my question," Wes leaned back, his smile smug.

"Maybe because it's none of your damned business," the scythe offered flatly.

"Oh, my. You _do_ have it bad, don't you? You should just tell her. I'm sure she'd—"

"You have no fucking clue what you're talking about," Soul cut him off. "And it's _still_ none of your business."

"Fine, suit yourself," his brother shrugged, leaning back casually. "I suppose I can just ask her, then."

"Like hell you will!" he finally snapped. "I swear to Death, Wes—"

The other man raised a placating hand. "It's talk to her or talk to you, your choice."

Soul sighed, defeated. Not like it was much of a choice. "Fine, yes, I'm smitten with her you fucking ruthless cocksucker."

"Okay, first." His brother was so amused sitting across from him that Soul felt like punching him. "Weren't you the one who suggested that smitten was outdated?" Soul shrugged, because like he fucking cared. "And second, you volley cocksucker like it's some sort of insult, when I can assure you that it is a very pleasant experience both on the giving and receiving end if you—"

"Fuck, Wes, I do _not_ need to hear your entire dick sucking history. Do you have a _point_?"

"I was getting to it, little brother. My point _is_ that even a complete moron could see how you look at her and know the truth—which is rather useful for this little ruse, admittedly, but useful in the here and now doesn't help you when you return home. You should tell her how you feel."

Soul shook his head vehemently. "You just don't _get_ it," he said, exasperation evident in his tone. "You don't know Maka. She doesn't want that, not with me, not with anyone. She may _never_ want it, but even if she did, she's not—I'm not who she'd want, okay? So—just—could you fucking drop it already?"

"I _could_ , but I won't," Wes said, amusement replaced with the type of careful neutrality they'd both picked up from their father. "You're right, though," he added. "I don't know Maka well. But I _do_ see the way she looks at _you_."

"Bullshit," Soul growled.

"If you say so," he shrugged again. "Anyway, we're almost there, so you can continue to pretend you aren't gazing at her longingly and that she isn't gazing back soon enough. Or maybe—just maybe—seeing as we'll be in the middle of a rather nice club, you can take her out on the dance floor, show her how you feel, and begin to resolve some long unfinished business."

Soul sighed and reached for the champagne bottle on the table beside him, pouring himself another glass to soothe the nerves his brother had frazzled. Was he really that obvious? This whole thing just got worse and worse. Kissing her earlier, being so close, it had his world on fire. It was everything he had wanted for so long and he wasn't sure, when the week was over, he knew how to go back.

Downing the champagne in one gulp, the weapon ignored his brother's raised eyebrows and attempted to steel himself, to calm his stuttering heart for in a few short minutes, he'd be seeing his meister again.

Wes was right—he really _was_ smitten.


	5. The End

**A/N: So I had a plan, conceived of with the Triumvirate of Assholes (my sistahs from another misses and mistah ilarual and rebornfromash) and egged on by certain members of Reverb chat (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE,) a wonderful, terrible plan to pull off the greatest fandom April Fools gag _ever_.**

 **This plan involved _Two of Us,_ a mock chapter/ending, and me out Fabing even Queen Fab herself (love you fabulousanima mwah!)**

 **You all saw the announcement of a new chapter—that was part of the plan.**

 **Turns out, I can't do it.**

 **I cried writing it, others cried reading it, and I'm just not this cruel. It would have worked, you all would have been gutted—but whereas Fab wrote a glorious story that wrenches the gut in a way that is poignant and meaningful, this is just—beyond cruel to do just as a gag, so I'm not.**

 **So here, have what I wrote, with the warning of HEAVY ANGST—PAIN ON PAIN—MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IMMANENT. Also not particularly well edited—couldn't be arsed. It's set in the TOU universe just after chapter 8 and is nothing like canon to the fic. I repeat, THIS IS NOT CANON TO TOU.**

 **And don't hurt me—in the end I did the right thing.**

* * *

It was three am when he awoke, tossing and turning and miserable. Three am and he'd probably slept a total of ten minutes.

Soul couldn't sleep. The poison he'd hurled at her, vicious vitriol, how could he sleep when he'd hurt her?

It wasn't her fault he was hurt himself, wasn't her fault she was playing the game he'd asked her to play by the rules he'd set for them, wasn't her fault if she didn't share his feelings.

He'd been hurt and it had blinded him. He needed to make it right.

He got up from the couch, stiff, sore, exhausted in every way.

Sleep was clearly not his friend tonight, so maybe it was time to just bite the bullet and figure out what he was going to do. He glanced around and, being in this place, amidst his parents' things, it felt crowded, stifling.

He needed to think, needed to clear his head, but he couldn't, not here, not so steeped in his childhood. Here, he felt ten again, small and worthless, a distant second best. Here, he had acted like a child, had taken out his own failings on the one person who meant everything.

He was an ass. Such an ass.

He needed to get out of here, to feel like himself again if he was going to have a prayer of fixing this. With a sigh, he walked over to pick up his jeans, carelessly discarded onto the floor in his anger only hours before, and shucked them on. His jacket came next, then his shoes. He knew he probably looked like a drunk hobo, complete with bed head and morning breath, but couldn't be arsed to care. His helmet would cover the hair, and who would be close enough to notice that his mouth smelled like rotting ass anyway?

Grabbing his wallet and his keys, he locked the door softly behind him and walked to Etta. His bike had seen them through so much, had taken them into tragedy and triumph alike. It had been there when they pursued Blair, had been there in Italy when he'd nearly been cleft in twain, had driven them through countless missions, school days, even pleasure trips. He stroked the handlebar lovingly. Riding always helped clear his head, helped him to think. Soul picked up the helmet and eyed it for a minute then decided against it. Maka would be pissed if she knew—he could hear her lecturing him about safety even now—but he wanted to feel the wind, and what she didn't know couldn't hurt either of them.

Stowing the helmet, he mounted Etta and took off into the night.

As he took the roads that ran the shore, Soul only met with the occasional other car so late. The wind in his hair was soothing, if a bit brisk, the stars overhead beautiful and distant.

They reminded him of his meister in a way—so strong and beautiful and full of fire, yet completely untouchable.

Or at least she had been until yesterday.

Yesterday.

When he'd shared his first kiss with her.

When he'd wanted to share his all with her and thought she might want the same until she pushed him away.

She had faked it so well. _So well_.

When had she gotten so good at lying?

Only—only—she never had been. His meister had always worn her heart on her sleeve, was a notoriously terrible liar.

How had she played the game so well?

Then it hit him with the force of a hundred hundred cannons. What if—what if she _hadn't_?

What if it had been real for her, too, all along?

What if the reason it felt so real was because it _was_? If she had pushed him away out of fear not displeasure?

Fuck he was stupid. So stupid. They both were.

A thousand memories, signs that she might feel more than she said, rushed at him, and he knew it with a sudden clarity. He had to go back—beg her forgiveness—and tell her.

He had to tell Maka he loved her. It was the only way to fix this.

If he had misread things—if he was wrong—if he hoped too much—he knew they could get past it, that she would understand his hurt. But in his heart, he believed he was right. In his soul, he believed she loved him too, and hoped that he wasn't setting himself up for heartbreak.

Only one way to find out.

He made the next turn to head back, a wide grin he couldn't control quirking on his lips, his heart racing, soaring unbidden.

The sudden bright lights were unexpected—the screech and squeal and shock of pain.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, feeling absolutely hollow. There was still an echo of him in her soul, a void, an empty space where he had always belonged, one he would never again fill.

She was the last to go, the absolute last. The others had long since drifted off, his family, their school friends, making their ways to cars and limos, making their ways to what little solace they might find in a buffet spread and shared memories.

In truth, Maka didn't know how to leave. Leaving meant that they would lower the shiny mahogany beside her, that they would cover it in earth. Leaving was the final piece in admitting that he was truly gone, and she wasn't sure she could. It hurt too much, far far too much. Maybe if she stood here forever she could stop time—could change fate—could make it so his body wasn't laying cold in that casket, too broken to allow it to be open. Maybe if she stood here long enough, she could will back time, force it to her wishes, stop him from leaving that night while she lay so utterly alone in the bed they had shared just the night before. Maybe if she stood here long enough, she would have the chance to tell him how much she loved him, needed him, could beg him to come back, please, please, she would do anything, everything, would gladly take his place if it meant he was still here in this world.

Now, she never would. He would never know how much he'd meant to her. He had died the night they fought, had taken off on his bike in the middle of the night only to meet with a truck driven by a man so drunk they found him passed out down the road. He'd slammed into the bike from a side street and kept going, leaving the Last Death Scythe to bleed out alone on the pavement with only her anger to warm him mixt with his own, and that reality was shattering her soul into a thousand thousand pieces.

It began to rain, softly, a spring shower, and she fell to her knees, a bitter laugh on her lips. They thought she was his widow—Wes had insisted she keep up her role, so she had. She thought it's what he would have wanted; no one knew him better, loved him better. Who else would mourn him so? Even those people who knew the truth—her father and their friends—all went along with it, their partnership so strong no one could deny her place as the one who had lost the most. And yet, she was a phantom wife—had tasted his lips only in pretense, had known only the shadow of his touch. Her laughter bubbled louder, hysterical, at the cruelty of it all, the irony.

With the cool rain on her cheek, she turned her face to the merciless sky and for the first time let her tears flow free, let them flow along with the life giving water into this place of death.

She would not leave. She would never leave him. How could she ever leave him?

The hand on her shoulder was unexpected, but she didn't move, just closed her eyes and sighed. It was warm, but it could not comfort.

"Maka—we need to go." His voice was deep and rich, so achingly like the voice she would never hear again and yet nothing like it at all, that it shattered her soul anew. How many times could she break before there was nothing left?

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't leave him. I can't."

"You have to. He wouldn't want this—you know he wouldn't. He'd never forgive either of us if I let you get sick out here. So please?"

"No," she shook her head vehemently but refused to look at Soul's brother, refused to see the warped reflection of her weapon she would find. "I won't leave him alone."

Wes said nothing for a time, simply kept his hand heavy on her shoulder. He grieved, he hurt, she could feel it all radiating from his soul, but deep as his pain ran, it couldn't compare to hers and even he knew it. He had lost his brother—she had lost her soul mate.

Eventually, his voice broke the silence as he spoke over the soft sound of the rain that soaked them both.

"He loved you, you know."

"Yeah," she sighed. "I know. I love him, too."

"I think he knew. Deep down, he must have."

Maka just shook her head. It had taken his death to see the truth, to put the pieces together—they had both been so blind.

Too late—too late, and he'd never known the truth.

Too late—too late, and now he never would.

She wouldn't leave. No amount of coaxing could make her leave. Wes finally had to get others—her father, Black Star, and Kid chief among them—to help force her away, to drag her screaming her grief from his graveside. It had been no easy task.

In the end, Stein had to tranquilize her, and Maka missed the gathering, the wedding that had become a funeral.


End file.
